LXG: 21st Century 1 The Man Who Laughs
by Shutchings
Summary: A new century calls for a new league. The Doctor, Gene Hunt, Dr. Jackman and Mr. Hyde, Hannibal Lecter and Lara Croft assemble to prevent mass devestation and answer the question- "Why So Serious?"
1. Introduction

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"The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen- 21st Century"

'THE MAN WHO LAUGHS'

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INTRODUCTION

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In late 2007 I embarked on a fan fiction project in the style of Alan Moore's "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen", set in the 21st century. The formula of using readily established literary characters into a custom storyline is an attractive one to potential authors for several reasons, the main ones being; A) it allows you to become "personal" with characters you hold in high regard B) you don't actually have to come up with the characters yourself and most importantly C) the fun that can be had with inside/continuity jokes that apply only to those familiar with the same characters is almost infinite.

My initial project (though meeting with several bizarrely positive and polite reviews) was pitiful and ridiculous and has remained unfinished for sometime. So it shall remain. The problem was simple, I didn't have a story. I was overwhelmed with the idea of using certain characters I would have simply had them in a room talking nonsense forever and ever. And I don't know about you but I would like to get on with something more productive. Furthermore I didn't know how I was going to use the characters. James Bond was an obvious choice- but I know nothing about James Bond. At all. Nothing. Neither did I understand how Violet Baudelaire or Artemis Fowl would work in such a story, nor do I understand (and being honest I don't think I ever will do) why I thought Rose Tyler qualified as "extraordinary". These are beloved characters, and I simply did not have the heart to ruin them.

It is also probably a factor that I was taking myself far FAR too seriously. I lost track of the fact that the first and indeed only point of is entertainment.

And so to the present day, I have learned my lessons and constructed a new league to defend the twenty first century- and given them a decent enough story that would hold your attention and keep you entertained. I certainly hope it does. Wishful thinking I dare say. The new project is slightly more light hearted, even though you should not approach it as a comedy. Indeed, any humour in this piece will only be derived from the polarity of certain characters. I feel that I must also underline certain continuity facts, IE, where in these characters' time lines are these events happening- although the continuity of this piece on an official bases is (at best) debateable.

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The 10th Doctor… (DAVID TENNANT) _The 10th Doctor experiences these events in the time bordering "Voyage of the Damned" and "Partners in Crime"._

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Gene Hunt… (PHILIP GLENISTER) _An aged Gene Hunt in the year 2008. So very long after "Life on Mars" and "Ashes to Ashes"._

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Dr. Tom Jackman/ Mr. Hyde… (JAMES NESBITT) _Given that no exact date is given in the TV series "Jekyll", for the good doctor these events happen before the continuity of the series._

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Hannibal Lectre… (ANTHONY HOPKINS) _Using the continuity of the films rather than books, Lectre has since been recaptured after the events of "Hannibal"._

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Lara Croft… (ANGELINA JOLIE) _Given that video games follow they're own special continuity laws, Ms Croft's will have to remain ambiguous._

For the other characters (namely villains) in this story I will leave you to read and find out. I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise now would I?

SHutchings


	2. Prologue

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Prologue

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Arkham Asylum stood on the outskirts of Gotham City. A dismal, grey heap of stone encased in a grey ring of stone and a tall wrought iron gate that bore the words "Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane". Time and the elements had eaten slowly at the metal words, and the letters hung like ragged, oxidised skeletons against the thick black metal of the meticulously maintained bars. Why the words themselves lay neglected was anyone's guess. Perhaps it added a bit of colour to the place. The grounds were green and perfectly symmetrical- not a blade of grass was out of place. Shrubs and intricate topiaries where dotted across the lawn and against the brilliant green was the grey box of the asylum itself. Of course, what was seen of the building was more or less just administration. Anything in the least bit medical was kept underground past elevator shafts and sheets of concrete. The orderlies were armed to the teeth and the young men who worked the shift guarding America's most twisted and violent had adopted a simple and unspoken understanding with each other in case of emergency- "every man for himself".

Ever since Dr. Crane had allowed an eastern judo master the ability to break down the asylum's security systems, the orderlies were understandably riled by the possibility by someone so close to home would be willing to put everyone in danger. So an air of caution was maintained towards everyone, not just the patients. To get by in Arkham the staff, the doctors, the orderlies, the guards, the maintenance men, the janitors, all had to work like an ant colony- everyone had their job, everyone had their place- to stick to that place meant that everything kept moving. It was a good system, one that worked, but unfortunately a plan that suffered from one fatal flaw. That flaw was that if one thing went wrong, one cog stopped working, then everything fell apart. And the inmates of Arkham lived for those times. The inmates, now including Dr. Crane himself, adored the chaos that could reign throughout Arkham given the right circumstances. Circumstance they were all too happy to give. But there was one inmate who lived for chaos more than any of the others. It was this inmate that the doctors were particularly interested in. No one knew where he had come from, no one knew what his name was or who he was, this was a man with no past and seemingly no present. The doctors at Arkham understood quite clearly that this made his dedication to chaos so much more dangerous.

He had been apprehended the night that Harvey Dent was pushed from a warehouse flaw by the vigilante, despite the heroic attempts of Commissioner Gordon to save him. Or at least, that's what the papers had said. After a short and discreet trial he was committed to Arkham where the doctors and psychiatrists had tried desperately night and day to get a profile from him. Nothing. The man was a psychological deadlock. Nothing was coming out- and it was more than likely that nothing was going in. All they knew was what they could see on the surface. Here was a man who walked through the world and didn't leave a footprint, only to appear in Gotham and for a week clutch the city in a reign of terror. This was a man who had suffered some trauma from the terrible scarring of his face, scarring that contorted his cheeks into a rictus and permanent grin. This was a man who saw human suffering as a punch line, a man who wore clown's make up and cared nothing for anything including himself. This was a man who called himself "Joker".

He was a psychiatric analyst's dream come true. But only if they could get him to crack like an egg shell. But the Joker was impenetrable. His mind was like a shattered mirror; glistening, bright, sharp yet impossible too much if unprotected and irrevocably broken. He had the strangest effect upon those who analysed him. So strange an effect that Dr. Quinzell had to be put of leave for her own health. It was debateable as to whether or not the Joker was as insane as he let on to be. An insane man doing what the Joker did was dangerous- a sane man doing it was unspeakable.

Carter, one of the nurses come orderly peered through the peep hole of the Joker's cell. There he sat, on the iron bed, bolt upright, hands pressed together and staring forward- grinning. He couldn't see Carter there of course, but it was still unnerving. Carter was a formidable enough man, built like a rugby player and armed with syringes of powerful drugs, sedatives and medicines- but there was just SOMETHING about the Joker. Everything he did was cool, collective and fluid. Carter sighed and unlocked the door- a task that took the better part of a minute. The door swung open and the Joker looked up. He wasn't so physically formidable sat in his cell, clad in his orange jump suit, hands bound in chains and without his trademark makeup. But he was repulsive. The bright eyes- glaring at Carter as he wheeled in the trolley, the limp and dirty blonde hair tucked behind the ears, that forced grin- the wound turning inward rather than ripped outwardly, signs of some cheap and botched attempt to repair the damage. He didn't rise, he didn't speak, he merely smiled almost politely. When he actually grinned, tiny white pegs pressed against his lower lip and the scars were pulled apart- contorted to a perversion of the flesh.

"Time for your medicine…" Carter said. He stopped himself before he could call him 'Joker', a mistake he had made a few times and was now advised against doing. The Joker sighed and shook his head slowly. Then so quickly he was upon his feet- so fast that Carter hadn't seen him move- only the rattle of chains was heard. The Joker smiled again and nodded towards the paper cup of bright pink tablets on the cold steel trolley. Carter closed the cell door again and locked it. Standard security procedure. He had to make sure his 'patient' took the prescribed dosage. He just wanted out of the cell as quickly as possible. Turning once again to the Joker he realised all too late the fatal error he had made. He had turned his back on the patient. The Joker stood with full syringe in his hand and an empty bottle on the floor. Carter swore under his breath, for all the good it would do him. He had locked himself in the cell with an armed lunatic. There wasn't a way out. "Now listen to me Joker" he stammered, hand out stretched, fending off the impending attack. "Just put down the syringe, don't do anything stupid. Alright? Just give it to me…" Fuck. The Joker wasn't speaking. He wasn't moving. Just watching Carter with those wide, bright eyes. But then a slight sound came from his throat, his lips contorted. A steadily growing noise, falling out of his mouth and filling the cell. He was laughing.

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"Doctor! Doctor! Come quick! There's been a terrible accident!"


	3. Chapter 1: The Paper Fortress

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Chapter One: The Paper Fortress

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One month later

The archives of the UNified Intelligence Taskforce were located in a converted, outdated bomb shelter beneath the main facility of the organisation's British Branch. The dozen or so chambered concrete bunker had had the capacity of supporting three hundred people for thirty years in the case of nuclear or interplanetary war. But, decades on, the facility had been deemed unsuitable to the new and more devastating weapons both terrestrial and extraterrestrial enemies had developed. UNIT'S main British Branch had therefore been moved to beneath Tower Bridge, and the old building was given over to experimental purposes- and it's cavernous basement facilities to UNIT's vast non-digital archives.

Every piece of information of information gathered by UNIT around the world was now put into a computer bank located in Washington, accessible by any other branch, but hard copies were made as well and stored in various countries' personal archives. Computers, no matter how many passwords or fail-safe systems were put in place were still pregnable to enemy agents, and paper when disposed of- stays disposed of. The British Archive's had at one time employed teams of "librarians" (naturally with more than their signature on the official secrets acts) to catalogue, maintain and keep track of every single scrap of paper within the vaults. But lately, the entire library staff had been replaced with one man. Apparently, a man who was on and off UNIT's staff. The man that Violet Baudelaire was here to see.

The young American woman had been transferred to serve with British Intelligence after her graduation from university, and had found herself a comfortable job at MI6. She was twenty, pretty with chestnut brown hair had tied in a ponytail by a long ribbon. One of the perks of higher ranks was that the dress code was more lenient. She had been driven by escort to the UNIT base from London and was now being marched down a long, grey, steadily sloping concrete corridor- through numerous vault like doors by two young soldiers in the UNIT uniform, guns to their chests. Violet felt somewhat overwhelmed by all this security, all this fuss over a basement full of books. She chewed her lower, dark red lip to stifle a smirk- what would her brother think of that? She carried a briefcase with her in her right hand, and had wondered if the security there was for her safety or indeed the case'. The soldiers stopped her in front of a Perspex set of sliding doors, through which, a small woman with tightly bound greying hair and a some-what sagging bosom, sat upright typing on a wireless keyboard. The older of the two soldiers slotted a card into the box and ushered Violet through the door. The airtight seal hissed as the door clicked into place, and her two escorts retreated in the grey monotonous rabbit warren. Violet glanced over at the frumpy middle aged secretary behind the desk- who spared her only a momentary glare from behind her designer frames. Too much makeup, and the grey roots of her hair showing through the unnatural blonde, tight skin, flared nostrils and foundation cracked by the odd moustache hair. A woman who wouldn't admit her own aging. So naturally, when someone as young and fresh and beautiful as Violet entered the room, she was treated to an rude awakening to reality where all she was- was a frumpy secretary in an underground archive.

Violet smiled as politely as she could, and held out her MI6 pass. The woman inspected it and called up the details on the flat computer monitor. A moment passed as every digit was scrutinized.

"American?" The woman said, with a faux interested upward inflection.

"Boston." Violet replied. The woman snorted and returned the card, proceeding to fill in a form on the computer screen. "I've been sent here on business from MI6. They're interested in employing the services of your librarian." Her speech was not engaging the interest of the secretary. Violet had worked hard for her transfer to Britain, and indeed preferred life serving for British Intelligence- but the only thing she missed was that state-side, forms were at a minimum. Violet was the sort of person who ran on gut energy, energy that couldn't be suppressed- so having to wait on the proper documents would give her a migraine. Given, she could see the importance of it in security purposes, and as a system it worked. In the post office, not having the correct documentation resulted in you being sent back to the beginning of the line- in this place, not having the correct documentation could result in being shot. She sighed, and tried again. "I'm here to see the librarian."

The secretary hit the ENTER key with a bright red fingernail. She turned in her chair, held her hands together and looked at Violet.

"He's not the librarian darling." She said. She rose from the chair and deactivated to lock of door behind her. A great slab of concrete wall slid away, unveiling a vast chamber of tall shelves and reading desks stretching away throughout the facility.

"Not the librarian?" Violet said, her confusion evident in her voice. "Then who is he?"

"He's the Doctor".

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The first chamber was UNIT's complete history, dating all the way back to what allied troops found of Hitler's secret space programs at the end of the second world war. To a layman it sounds impressive, but it was by no means a great breakthrough of the century. Violet, clutching her case across her chest, walked silently through January to June 1963; a proverbial wall of tightly bound folders and loose stacks of papers held together in faded red string. Flimsy paper labels stuck out like children stick out their tongues. It was seemingly endless; this hangar sized space of shelves and books- and a lonely looking table nestled in the early weeks of '64. A few chairs were placed around the outside- lamps in front of each one. It was aged, perhaps not used in decades. Except for one small section, a chair pulled out askew from the table, a few hardback books stacked on the table, an old ledger opened at a fresh page, a jug of water with an exhausted looking lemon hanging in it, a near empty bowl of fruit and an open "Thomas the Tank Engine" pencil case lay haphazardly around the small section of table. It had recently been left- with the intention of a short term absence. Violet looked over the contents of the table and reached towards the bowl of fruit, three pears and some loose grapes. She helped herself to one of the pears and took a bite from it thoughtfully.

She looked around the archive, a labyrinth of paper, ceiling high bookshelves. It had never occurred to her that she wasn't getting out again. The thought played through her mind that ONE man maintained this entire facility, when UNIT had at one time employed a few dozen to keep it in check. There was no sign of this "Doctor".

"Can I help you at all?" The voice was male, English with a highland tinge, and from a very far way away. Violet looked around, and found herself for the first time noticing the enormous ladders fixed to the shelves. Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-thwum. The man came sliding down the ladder at a rate of knots and landed perfectly at the bottom. He was tall and very thin, with spiked black hair and prominent features. He wore an old brown striped suit and battered white sneakers and on his nose wore thickly rimmed black glasses. Between his teeth he held a thin paper folder that he plucked out upon impact with the floor and cast onto the table. He smiled and took off his glasses.

"Hello. Sorry- about that. I was told you were coming and the least I could of done was be here to meet you." He said. His voice was quick, filled with enthusiasm and reflected his smiley exterior. Almost too smiley. "I see you found the fruit bowl." His eyes darted to the pear in Violet's hand. Violet was overcome by this man, and thought desperately within herself not to let her childish crush come across. This was official. This was important. This was- oh my god she had flecks of pear all over her face. Sheepishly she wiped it away with her sleeve, swallowed the rest of the fruit and held out her hand.

"Violet Baudelaire, MI6". Very professional. The man looked at her for a moment, hands in pockets. Then his eyes brightened, his smile stretched he held out his hand in return.

"Pleased to meet you Violet Baudelaire." He said. "I'm the Doctor."


	4. Chapter 2: A Joker in the Deck

Author's Note:

My kind, if misguided, readers. I cannot apologise enough for the break (or gaping chasm) I updates of this story. I had such high hopes for it when the great narrative structure of the universe turned against me. Alevels, namely, as well as the proverbial spanner Mr. Tennant threw into the works by deciding to leave the series and Mr. Smith's own addition to my hindrance by picking it up. I have needed time to rework the plot. All I need now is for Gene Hunt to die in the next series of Ashes to Ashes and there will be some serious fun. As it stands… where were we?

_Chapter Two: A Joker in the Deck_

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It was cold. Very cold. He didn't know where he was. There was a draught across his back, his bare forearms- the nape of his neck. Too strong to be a draught, a breeze. So cold. He was indoors, but his back was to an open door. Or a hole in the wall. He hands were bound behind his back, twisted awkwardly around the back of the chair, a good amount of duct held bound his wrists impressively tight. His fingertips actually _felt_ purple. The bag over his head was cheap cloth and smelt of soil. What he knew of the room was that it was vast and empty and he had no idea where it was. The dull pain in the back of his head where the bastards had hit him pulsated behind his eyes, made the blackness inside the bag look blurry. He had no sense of the time, of his location, whether or not he was alone. He knew nothing. No. He could hear, just on the edge of hearing there was a sound. A cluster of muffled voices, not all of them local. And then footsteps. Across concrete (he wasn't in anything residential) slow, methodical footsteps, an unmistakable purpose in it's tread but no urgency. He felt the presence of another body beside him. The new body whipped the bag from his head and his eyes burnt, the shining light pierced the darkness and he gasped aloud. He wasn't scared, and even if he was he wouldn't have let him captors know that he was. His focus returned slowly, hazy, but clear enough. A warehouse, now that he knew he could smell the water outside. The light was on a table pointed at him, the perfect interrogation set-up, straight out of a movie. He recalled a Gestapo officer in '43 doing a very similar thing. Wasn't so cold though. He looked around briefly and saw the clustered group of captors. Not what he was expecting. They were ridiculously thin, wearing dirty tracksuits with the hoods up- potentially drug addicts. In their hands they held a machine gun and on their faces they wore a clown mask. A clown mask? This wasn't his actual subjugator of course. He'd seen enough cronies in his life to know them a mile away.

Power cables trailed across the floor, lighting the blinding lamp and also a tripod mounted video camera. He could make out the blinking red recording light amongst the burning white. He was being filmed. Well this was new. Now he started to feel uneasy. He felt the presence beside him again, it squatted down beside him. There was something obscene about his breathing. Almost perverted. He spoke slowly and calmly with an indeterminable American accent. He hadn't looked at him yet.

"Say you're name" the voice said.

"Captain Jack Harkness". He turned and was taken aback. The face was covered in slovenly applied white make-up, black around the eyes and crimson across the lips. Someone had given this guy a nasty Glasgow smile and he'd picked it out with the crimson paint. His hair was lank and greasy and dyed bright green. A nightmarish clown. He had a dark purple overcoat and leather gloves. It was like his Gestapo experience blended with his childhood nightmares. But it was not in his nature to show any ill emotion, he was after all, a smart-arse on the cellular level. "And who might you be? Chuckles?"

The creature laughed, a menacing sound that scraped at Jack's insides. It made him wince.

"Here's my card…" he said, pinning a playing card to Jack's lapel. It was black and white- and showed a joker.

"Joker". Jack murmured. The Joker grinned widely. "I've my own card I could show you, if you'd show me where the hell you'd put my coat."

"Oh I know. I've seen it. Torchwood. Sounds absolutely thrilling." The Joker cooed, twirling the Torchwood insignia around his fingers and he strode around the tethered captain. He couldn't remember how he was jumped. There was something in the hub, unusual activity on the surface around Roald Dahl Plass and he had gone up to investigate. That must have been where they were waiting for him. How could this be planned? Admittedly it was becoming apparent that any Tom, Dick or Harry could find out about this top-secret organisation that was supposedly above the United Nations, and yes Jack had in recent years discovered that any hard core hacker worth his salt could bypass the encryptions- but this wasn't something that would be easily rectified.

"It is. It really is. Why don't you come back with me and I'll give you a little lesson in manners". Jack smirked. He didn't mean it. The Joker licked his lips and stared off into the distance for a moment. Then he brought his fist down and around Jack's face. He whooped with delight, jumping up and down. It was all a game to him. "If you're trying to intimidate me pal I'll suggest you try some more up to date ideas. I've put up with freaks like you before. Worse even. They didn't scare me, and neither do you."

The Joker knelt down behind Jack and glared at him, his face a matter of inches away. His breath was warm and foul.

"Now you see that's a real shame. Because you really ought to be afraid of me Jack. I'm exactly the sort of person you ought to be afraid of. But I know you're not scared of physical violence or any harm coming to your good self. But what about others, hmm?" He was almost tuneful in his threats. Every word was meant. Jack knew it, and it showed. "Ah there we are. Every man has his spot. Everyone has buttons and, not to toot my own horn you understand Jack, I'm very good at pushing people's buttons. Now…" He folded his arms around Jack's shoulders and spoke softly, he was like a patronising school councillor- it made Jack's skin crawl. "If I were to say to you that I have your little friends wired up to a bomb in your hub over there, and I will detonate it if you don't do as I tell you, I think that'd be one of your buttons." His face wrinkled, he scrutinised Jack's face for an indication that what he was doing was working. Unsatisfied he stood up and marched across the warehouse, snatched a laptop from the hands of one of one of his clowns and showed the screen to Jack. "I'd bet that showing you that I'd done just that would be another one of your buttons. Am I right? Yes… I'm right. This is the camera comes in you see…"

The screen showed it. Gwen and Ianto in the hub, two of the Joker's clowns stood close by. They were gagged and they were bound and Jack could see an intricate array of wires and timers linking every piece of machinery to another. The Joker's eyes widened and he placed the detonator for the bomb on the keyboard.

"I've never understood why you still use ID cards as a means of accessing a facility like this," he mused "a card can be stolen so easily. And has, as it just so happens." Jack turned, his face like thunder. For him the joking was over, for his captor it was just beginning.

"What do you want from me?"

"I'll make a very simple deal with you Jack. You give me the access code to the Torchwood files on the Pandora Facility and I won't blow your team sky high. Sound like a plan?"

"You've got to be joking…" Jack said. The Joker laughed again, involuntarily and tried to stifle it.

"I don't know exactly what all that monitoring equipment is in there Jack, sure does look important, and I'm willing to guess that a lot of trouble will come from me blowing it to pieces. Is it really worth all that chaos for the sake of one little password?"

The time that passed was only thirty seconds at best. For Jack, a millennium passed by. He knew that the rift would be sent haywire if those monitoring systems where destroyed. Havoc would be wreaked across the surface of this dimension. He knew that, the Joker didn't. He cared, the Joker didn't. And Gwen and Ianto sat there, helpless, resisting as best they could. That spirit never faded even in the bleakest moments. What could he do? There was only one thing he could do. He gave the Joker the access code to the files on the Pandora Facility. He had probably given away his position and his reputation. He had lost his dignity to a deranged clown. He hung his head. The Joker slapped the laptop shut and flung it into the arms of one of his henchmen.

"Pleasure doing business with you… captain." He laughed maniacally. It rattled through the chamber, it reverberated off of the inside of Jack's head. The Joker picked up the bomb's detonator and examined it for a time as his men withdrew. He played with it.

"And what now?" Jack murmured. The Joker looked at him as though the most ridiculous question imaginable had been asked.

"Well I told you Jack," he said. "It's all about pressing buttons". And he pressed it…


End file.
